Rock Star (10 page)

Dutifully she got off the bed, announcing, ‘It’s cold, I’ll make you another one.’

‘Cold is fine. Just hand it to me.’

Without bothering to cover herself, she padded over to the table where she had left the tray, and took it to him. Normally she would have been self-conscious about displaying her body. She considered her legs too short, her ass too rounded, and her breasts too big, but with Bobby it didn’t matter, he couldn’t see her anyway. And if he could, he wouldn’t want her, she was sure of that. Because, in his time, Bobby Mondella had been with the most beautiful women in the world – black and white.

Sara remembered the magazine stories, the scandals and the gossip. She also remembered the first time she saw him perform onstage back in 1980. She was eighteen years old and had just graduated from high school. Two girlfriends dragged her to a concert he was doing in Philadelphia. ‘He’s the sexiest man
alive!
’ they both assured her. ‘Wait’ll you
see
him! This man is pure horn!’

And she’d had to agree they were right. When he walked out on that stage in finely cut black pants and a white silk shirt, fifty thousand women began to wet their pants while screaming their lungs out. Bobby Mondella exuded sex. He was a walking, living, breathing phallic symbol. And what a voice!

Sara became an immediate convert. She’d never dreamed that years later, soon after his terrible accident, she would be working for him as his personal assistant, and more.

‘I’m gonna take another shower,’ Bobby said, finishing the sandwich in a couple .of hungry bites. ‘Are my clothes ready?’

‘Everything’s set,’ she replied. ‘Your favourite black pants and white silk shirt.’

‘Thanks, babe.’ Yeah, they were his favourite clothes all right. His lucky outfit. Only his clothes hadn’t been so lucky for him on that fateful night two years ago.

Oh, Jesus. Soon he would be in the presence of Nova Citroen. That seductive cold
bitch.

He didn’t know if he could take it.

Sara held his arm, assisting him to the bathroom.

He shook her hand away. ‘I know the lay-out,’ he said sharply. ‘You’ve got to stop takin’ every step for me.’

Sometimes he wanted help. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it. Today he wanted to do everything on his own.

‘I’ll go get dressed,’ she said quickly, in that small, hurt voice he couldn’t stand.

She was such a sweet kid, so warm and helpful. She’d brought him back from the brink, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. And yet, there were times she got on his nerves.

Lightening up, he said, ‘You mean you’re still walkin’ around bare-assed, girl? Shame on you! Somebody might see you.’

Bobby’s idea of a joke. Sara didn’t find it very funny.

*    *    *

Nova Citroen prowled around her luxurious estate checking the details that had made her one of America’s number one hostesses, and aggravating the. hell out of everyone who worked for her. She had an eye for the smallest speck of dust, the slightest imperfection, everything had to be just so.

Concentrating on the guest house, she ordered a collection of silver frames to be repolished. Insisted there were fresh rolls of toilet tissue in every one of the seven bathrooms. Made a manservant change every light bulb, and personally rearranged nine vases of garden-picked flowers.

Finally she returned to her bedroom with her masseuse, hairdresser, manicurist, and a top makeup artist – an English girl called Tracy – the only one allowed to touch the precious Nova Citroen skin.

‘This is all so boring,’ she informed her diligent entourage. ‘However, I enjoy raising money. And the Governor is
such a worthy
cause, don’t you think?’

Little did any of them suspect that twenty years ago Nova Citroen had been one of the highest-paid call girls in her native Germany.

*    *    *

Vicki Foxe had a way of moving around that enabled her to go wherever she wanted. The uniform helped. The dreary brown and white maid’s uniform that Mrs Citroen insisted every female employee wear.

The old broad probably doesn’t want any competition
, Vicki thought smugly. Man, without the uniform, and with all her makeup and shit in place, Vicki Foxe could give competition to any of those big fancy movie stars. Not that the new ones were so big and fancy anymore – mere shadows of what they used to be like in the good old days. Not that Vicki had been around then, but she knew. There were no Marilyn Monroes and Lana Turners today.

Vicki Foxe had arrived in Hollywood at sixteen, a runaway from Chicago, with sixty bucks in her pocket and two great assets – her incredibly large breasts.

The sixty dollars didn’t get her very far at all, but the assets got her a job as a topless waitress and go-go dancer, and from there she graduated to nude modelling. Hooking came next, and by the time she was twenty-five she was scoring fairly big bucks, until she met a small-time hood who was married, generous, and wanted her all to himself. He set her up in an apartment on Ventura Boulevard and paid all the bills. She sat at home filing her nails, eating chocolates, and watching soap operas all day. Four years passed quickly, and then her boyfriend got himself arrested down in Florida on an armed robbery charge arid was promptly sent to jail. Vicki, a little older, a little plumper, went back to hooking, but her heart wasn’t in it, and when Maxwell Sicily – who had shared a jail cell with her former lover – contacted her, she was ready for a touch of excitement. At thirty she was all set for action. She was also undeniably attracted to Maxwell Sicily, so she accepted his plan without question. Now she was playing dress-up and loving every minute. After all, what was the whole scam anyway? Just taking from the rich and giving to Vicki and Maxwell. Nobody gave a shit when the rich got ripped off. So what? They had insurance and all that crap. Stealing from them was nothing, it wasn’t like a real
bad
crime.

Entering Marcus Citroen’s private study, she carried a feather duster lest she was stopped. Nobody bothered her, the rest of the staff were all too busy worrying about the evening’s big event.

Vicki
never
worried, she just went for it and did what she had to do.

*    *    *

Marcus Citroen employed three personal secretaries – each one more loyal than the next. He made it a strict rule that they were not to fraternize out of office hours – the penalty for breaking that rule was immediate dismissal.

The three women (Marcus did not believe in male secretaries) vied with each other for their boss’s attention. They told him absolutely everything that went on below boardroom level at Blue Cadillac Records, and therefore – between the three of them – he knew every piece of gossip, who was sleeping with whom, and other non-business-related facts which might not have reached him through normal channels. Keeping people at each other’s throats was one of Marcus’s specialities. He was the master at it. And knowing everything helped.

His three secretaries were all spinster-type women in their fifties. Marcus did not wish them to be bedded by anyone who might work for him. He demanded complete loyalty, and got it. They loathed each other. It suited him fine.

‘Mr Lamont is here,’ announced Phoebe, his senior secretary, on the intercom.

‘Send him right in,’ said Marcus. Certain people he kept waiting. Hawkins Lamont was not one of them.

The man in white entered Marcus’s spectacular office, which looked more like an antique-filled living room than the workplace of a record magnate. He went straight to the humidor on the ornate walnut desk, and selected a thick Havana cigar.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ the Hawk asked, confidently sitting himself down in a plush leather chair across the desk.

Amused, Marcus said, ‘Go ahead.’

At fifty-nine Marcus Citroen radiated power. An inch under six feet tall, and forty pounds overweight, his impeccable English tailoring covered a multitude of flaws. Mostly bald, his head was egg-shaped and olive-hued, the same colour as his face. He had a thin upper lip, an obscenely thick lower one, a prominent nose, and mysteriously hooded eyes with indolent drooping lids. Originally from Beirut, he had lived in America for over forty years, and been a citizen for thirty. He was enormously rich, extremely powerful – and in the business he had chosen to excel in, universally feared. A somewhat different figure from the young man who had arrived in New York in 1948 aged twenty, with barely one hundred dollars to his name, but a heart already as hard as steel. Marcus Citroen had seen too much of life ever to change. He’d grown up in wartime Europe, and knew everything about the darker side of man’s nature. He’d seen his wealthy father reduced to poverty. His beautiful mother become a whore, his brother the plaything to a group of perverts.

Marcus desired money. He desired power. And he came to America to seek both out.

He’d succeeded.

‘Well,’ the Hawk said. Kris Phoenix is delivered. Bobby Mondella will be there. Has Rafealla arrived?’

‘She’s here,’ Marcus confirmed. ‘At L’Ermitage.’ Fixing the Hawk with an intent stare, he leaned back, placed the tips of his elegantly manicured fingers together, and said, ‘And so the game begins, my friend.’

The Hawk puffed on his cigar. He’d known Marcus for over fifteen years, and yet – deep down – he felt he didn’t really know him at all. Nobody did. The man did not encourage intimate friendships, although the Hawk considered himself as close as anyone could get. He laughed dryly, almost nervously. ‘What game?’ he asked, his curiosity aroused; for Marcus had been obsessive about the three stars being there – especially Rafealla.

Marcus’ expression was inscrutable. ‘Any game I wish to play,’ he said slowly. ‘Any game at all.’

Kris Phoenix

1970–1972

For two years The Wild Ones played their collective asses off with nothing to show for it except an increasingly appreciative cult audience and as many girls as they could manage. Which wasn’t bad, but it certainly didn’t mean as much as getting a manager, an agent, a recording contract, money, and maybe the smallest speck of recognition from an industry which chose to totally ignore them.

Whenever they could get a booking they appeared at clubs all around the suburbs of London. Small clubs, big barns, local hops, anywhere they could get a chance to be seen. Sometimes they landed a gig at a wedding or a birthday party. It was all experience. Only none of it paid the rent, so they continued with their daytime jobs. Kris packed window cleaning in, and along with Buzz got himself a stint as a lifeguard/attendant at a local indoor swimming baths. They were both strong swimmers, and the work was not unduly taxing, although the smell of chlorine and the hordes of screaming school kids drove the two of them crazy. Buzz made out with every fanciable female who ventured into the place, even though he was still living with Flower. Kris found he was becoming more choosy – just because they were under twenty-five and moved didn’t mean he automatically had to get a leg-over. They were never short of female company. Show a girl a guitar and the little darlings almost came on the spot

Rasta Stanley, their black drummer, worked at a small radio station as a general gofer. It was a useful gig, enabling him to smuggle out all the new record albums, which Kris taped before Rasta smuggled them back in again.

Ollie Stoltz, bassist and keyboards, had a job in a library.

During their year together they’d become a tight-knit foursome. Kris was the driving force. Buzz, the moody one, with a bizarre, off-centre black humour. Rasta, the easygoing comedian. And Ollie, serious, studious, kind to animals and old ladies.

The Wild Ones. They had their own look. Kris – so alive and sexy, with his raunchy strut, shock of dirty-blond hair, and intense, ice-blue eyes.

Buzz – quite the opposite, with his emaciated satanic demeanour.

Ollie – an innocent face, John Lennon glasses, shoulder-length brown curls and a cherub’s smile.

Rasta – a ball of energy and cheeky good looks.

Girls loved them. Girls came to dance and stayed to stare.

When they were up on stage playing, everything fitted together nicely. Rasta on drums, Ollie handling bass and keyboards, Kris and Buzz exchanging guitar solos – swapping back and forth from lead to backup with swift, practised precision.

They covered every big hit, taking turns as vocalist, although it soon became obvious that Kris was the favourite when it came to singing. On guitar he was an original, doing anything he felt like, but on vocals he played it safe – a touch of Rod Stewart, a pinch of Mick Jagger, shades of American soul and a rock and roll swagger.

He could do a perfect ‘Jumping Jack Flash’, a moody ‘Gasoline Alley’, a hot and raunchy ‘Ain’t Too Proud to Beg’ and a touching ‘Your Song’.

‘The trouble is,’ Buzz announced one day as they stood idly by the side of the steamy indoor swimming pool watching a bunch of kids being taught to swim, ‘we’re not doin’ anythin’
different.
Y’know what I mean?’

Kris knew exactly what he meant, only it wasn’t his fault. The audience wanted to hear familiar songs, and that’s
all
they wanted to hear.

We should be writin’ our own stuff,’ Buzz said reflectively. ‘’Stead of churnin’ out other people’s hits. We gotta get Ollie t’come up with somethin’ – he’d be good at it.’

Kris nodded. He didn’t feel like saying anything, but he’d been working on a few ideas of his own, and had several songs he was anxious to try but. He’d held back because he didn’t want the others putting him down.

Buzz eyed a buxom brunette emerging from the girls’ changing room. ‘Nice pair of bristols,’ he remarked casually. ‘I bet she’s a right little raver.’

‘When have you ever seen a pair you
didn’t lik
e?’ Kris retorted.

‘We gotta ’ave original material’, Buzz repeated. ‘It’s the only way we’re goin’ t’get bleedin’ noticed.’

‘I know
that
,’ Kris replied. ‘As a matter of fact I—’ He didn’t finish his sentence, because out of the corner of his eye he noticed a swimmer in trouble. Without hesitation he made a racing dive into the pool, and headed for the struggling man, who was flailing around in the deep end in an advanced state of panic.